Page 23 of The Duke's Dream
A teacher. A respectable teacher.
He shouldn't have assumed the worst. What the devil was wrong with him? He had not risen to his position by making rash judgments. Kings had trusted his discernment. Yet the moment this ballerina was involved, he abandoned reason as readily as a boy in his first skirmish of love.
Helene whirled until she faced him, her skirts tangling around her legs.
Their gazes met. A jolt coursed through him. The ballroom faded into those dark eyes, so luminous. A sigh escaped her open mouth, and then she turned from him, addressing her pupil.
How could she dismiss him so easily when his every breath had been strained since he saw her last night?
She had removed the gray coat and red shawl, and the bodice of her modest dress outlined her lithe figure. With her hair swept back in a chignon, she had an air of quiet dignity, every bit the respectable governess, a picture of propriety. Meanwhile, the contract in his pocket scorched his skin.
“Would Your Grace be kind enough to step in? I would consider forgiving you for never appearing at Almack’s to do your duty as a peer and bachelor.”
Lady Thornley was one of the assembly rooms patronesses and the leading hostess of the Tory party. William made a mental note to attend. “I would be happy to.”
The girl, Lady Margaret, if he remembered correctly, blanched. Her unassuming presence shrank, and her gaze flitted all over the room as if searching for the nearest exit or a hole to place her head in.
“Mother, I think… I think that I, that my—”
“I’m afraid I’ve overworked poor lady Margaret, Lady Thornley. It is best if she rests for a while. I don’t want her to have a swollen ankle for her court presentation.” Miss Beaumont's voice was silvery and clear, the barest hint of her French accent coloring her vowels.
Lady Thornley seemed about to argue, but then her gaze rested on her daughter. “Very well. Miss Beaumont, then, would you give us the pleasure of partnering with His Grace? At least Maggy can learn by proxy.”
Miss Beaumont inclined her head regally, and with cold condescension, she walked to the center of the ballroom. No, she didn’t walk. She glided to the center, floated, or allowed herself to soar and land there. All he knew was that her steps had a grace and gracefulness that made him feel at once in heaven and hell.
When she curtsied before him, it lacked the defiance of the night before—today it felt more like a way to avoid his eyes. Was she nervous? Did she believe her rebuff had been effective? How little she knew him—William Harcourt never gave up.
He caught her hand and lifted her. When she still didn’t raise her eyes to him, he caressed her palm under the cover of their gloves, in a room with the most prominent Tory Hostess. Her gaze met his at last.
“So you will deign to dance with an anti-French, anti-reform, pro-establishment duke? Won’t Rousseau shake in his grave?”
She shrugged. “It’s just a dance.”
Placing his left hand over her waist, he brought her closer and reveled in her little gasp. “A dance is never just a dance, Miss Beaumont.”
The thrill of touching her again, even with the veiling of clothes, flooded him with warmth. She was finally within the cage of his arms. Instead of a phantom tingling, he experienced the supple muscles of her back. It was a conscious effort not to tighten his hold.
“What do you know of dancing, Your Grace?”
“The same knowledge you possess of politics, Miss Beaumont.”
“Then I expect greatness from this waltz, Your Grace. Pray don’t disappoint me.” She wrinkled her nose as if she would not bet a shilling on it.
William grinned. “I plan to. As soon as the music starts.”
Her gaze flicked to the pianist, who was frantically leafing through her sheets. “Poor Cleo, you’re making her nervous.”
He had that effect on people. “Did you receive my flowers?”
“Yes. The grandiose bouquet. I must warn you, though. I only accept flowers during the curtain call.”
A defiant, reckless pride spiced her voice. William mentally cursed himself for misreading her. If he showed her the contract now, she would throw it in his face.
“You shouldn’t try to look down on me, Miss Beaumont.”
Her eyes flashed, and she straightened her spine. “Are you afraid I might challenge your beliefs of superiority?”
“I’m afraid it might give you neck pains.”
